Barchester Towers by Anthony Trollope

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Not that he remained there for half or a quarter of that time. Inspite of what Eleanor had said, Mr Arabin was, in truth, a manlyman. Having ascertained that he loved this woman, and having nowreason to believe that she was free to receive his love, at leastif she pleased to do so, he followed her into the garden to makesuch wooing as he could.

He was not long in finding her. She was walking to and fro beneaththe avenue of elms that stood in the archdeacon's grounds, skirtingthe churchyard. What had passed between her and Mr Arabin, had not,alas, tended to lessen the acerbity of her spirit. She was veryangry; more angry with him than with any one. How could he have somisunderstood her? She had been so intimate with him, had allowedhim such latitude in what he had chosen to say to her, had compliedwith his ideas, cherished his views, fostered his precepts, caredfor his comforts, made much of him in every way in which a prettywoman can make much of an unmarried man without committing herselfor her feelings! She had been doing this, and while she had beendoing it he had regarded her as the affianced wife of another man.

As she passed along the avenue, every now and then an unbidden tearwould force itself on her cheek, and as she raised her hand tobrush it away, she stamped with her little foot upon the sward withvery spite to think that she had been so treated.

Mr Arabin was very near to her when she first saw him, that sheturned short round and retraced her steps down the avenue, tryingto rid her cheeks of all trace of the tell-tale tears. It was aneedless endeavour, for Mr Arabin was in a state of mind thathardly allowed him to observe such trifles. He followed her downthe walk, and overtook her just as she reached the end of it.

He had not considered how he would address her; he had not thoughtwhat he would say. He had only felt that it was wretchedness to himto quarrel with her, and that it would be happiness to be allowedto love her. And that he could not lower himself by asking for herpardon. He had done no wrong. He had not calumniated her, notinjured her, as she had accused him of doing. He could not confesssins of which had not been guilty. He could only let the past bepast, and ask her as to her and his hopes for the future.

'I hope we are not to part as enemies?' said he.

'There shall be no enmity on my part,' said Eleanor; 'I endeavourto avoid all enmities. It would be a hollow pretence were I to saythat there can be a true friendship between us after what has justpast. People cannot make their friends of those whom they despise.'

'And am I despised?'

'I must have been so before you could have spoken of me as you did.And I was deceived, cruelly deceived. I believed that you thoughtwell of me; I believed that you esteemed me.'

'Thought of you well and esteemed you!' said he. 'In justifyingmyself before you, I must use stronger words than those.' He pausedfor a moment, and Eleanor's heart beat with painful violence withinher bosom as she waited for him to go on. 'I have esteemed, doesteem you, as I never esteemed any woman. Think well of you! Inever thought to think so well, so much of any human creature.Speak calumny of you! Insult you! Wilfully injure you! I wish itwere my privilege to shield you from calumny, insult, and injury.Calumny! Ah, me. 'Twere almost better that it were so. Better thanto worship with a sinful worship; sinful and vain also.' And thenhe walked along beside her, with his hands clasped behind his back,looking down on the grass beneath his feet, and utterly at a lossto express his meaning. And Eleanor walked beside him determined atleast to give him no assistance.

'Ah, me!' he uttered at last, speaking rather to himself than toher. 'Ah, me! These Plumstead walks were pleasant enough, if onecould have but heart's ease; but without that, the dull dead stonesof Oxford were far preferable; and St Ewold's too; Mrs Bold, I ambeginning to think that I mistook myself when I came hither. ARomish priest now would have escaped all this. Of, Father ofheaven! How good for us would it be, if thou couldest vouchsafe tous a certain rule.'

'And have we not got a certain rule, Mr Arabin?'

'Yes--yes, surely; "Lead us not into temptation, but deliver usfrom evil." But what is temptation? what is evil? Is this evil--isthis temptation?'

Poor Mr Arabin! It would not come out of him, that deep true loveof his. He could not bring himself to utter it in plain languagethat would require and demand an answer. He knew not how to say tothe woman at his side, 'Since the fact is that you do not love thatother man, that you are not to be his wife, can you love me, willyou be my wife?' These were the words which were in his heart, butwith all his sighs he could not draw them to his lips. He wouldhave given anything, everything for power to ask this simplequestion; but glib as was his tongue in pulpits and on platforms,now he could not find a word wherewith to express the plain wish ofhis heart.

And yet Eleanor understood him as thoroughly as though he haddeclared his passion with all the elegant fluency of a practisedLothario. With a woman's instinct she followed every bend of hismind, as he spoke of the pleasantness of Plumstead and the stonesof Oxford, as he alluded to the safety of the Romish priest and thehidden perils of temptation. She knew that it all meant love. Sheknew that this man at her side, this accomplished scholar, thispractised orator, this great polemical combatant, was striving andstriving in vain to tell her that his heart was no longer his own.

She knew this, and felt the joy of knowing it; and yet she wouldnot come to his aid. He had offended her deeply, had treated herunworthily, the more unworthily seeing that he had learnt to loveher, and Eleanor could not bring herself to abandon her revenge.She did not ask herself whether or no she would ultimately accepthis love. She did not even acknowledge to herself that she nowperceived it with pleasure. At the present moment it did not touchher heart; it merely appeased her pride and flattered her vanity.Mr Arabin had dared to associate her name with that of Mr Slope,and now her spirit was soothed by finding that he would fainassociate it with his own. And so she walked on beside him inhalingincense, but giving out no sweetness in return.

'Answer me this,' said Mr Arabin, stopping suddenly in his walk,and stepping forward so that he faced his companion. 'Answer methis question. You do not love Mr Slope? You do not intend to behis wife?'

Mr Arabin certainly did not go the right way to win such a woman asEleanor Bold. Just as her wrath was evaporating, as it wasdisappearing before the true warmth of his untold love, here-kindled it by a most useless repetition of his original sin. Hadhe known what he was about he should never have mentioned MrSlope's name before Eleanor Bold, till he had made her all his own.Then, and not till then, he might have talked of Mr Slope with asmuch triumph as he chose.

'I shall answer no such question,' said she; 'and what is more, Imust tell you that nothing can justify your asking it. Goodmorning!'

And so saying she stepped proudly across the lawn, and passingthrough the drawing-room window joined her father and sister atlunch in the dining-room. Half an hour afterwards she was in thecarriage, and so she left Plumstead without again seeing Mr Arabin.

His walk was long and sad among the sombre trees that overshadowedthe churchyard. He left the archdeacon's grounds that he mightescape attention, and sauntered among the green hillocks underwhich lay at rest so many of the once loving swains and forgottenbeauties of Plumstead. To his ears Eleanor's last words soundedlike a knell never to be reversed. He could not comprehend that shemight be angry with him, indignant with him, remorseless with him,and yet love him. He could not make up his mind whether or no MrSlope was in truth a favoured rival. If not, why should she nothave answered his question?

Poor Mr Arabin--untaught, illiterate, boorish, ignorant man! Thatat forty years of age you should know so little of the workings ofa woman's heart!

CHAPTER XXXI

THE BISHOP'S LIBRARY

And thus the pleasant party of Plumstead was broken up. It had beena very pleasant party as long as they had all remained in goodhumour with one another. Mrs Grantly had felt her house to be gayerand brighter than it had been for many a long day, and thearchdeacon had been aware that the month had passed pleasantlywithout attributing the pleasure to any other special merits thanthose of his own hospitality. Within three or four days ofEleanor's departure, Mr Harding had also returned, and Mr Arabinhad gone to Oxford to spend one week there previous to his settlingat the vicarage of St Ewold's. He had gone laden with many messagesto Dr Gwynne touching the iniquity of the doings in Barchesterpalace, and the peril in which it was believed the hospital stillstood in spite of the assurances contained in Mr Slope'sinauspicious letter.

During Eleanor's drive into Barchester she had not much opportunityof reflecting on Mr Arabin. She had been constrained to divert hermind both from his sins and his love by the necessity of conversingwith her sister, and maintaining the appearance of parting with heron good terms.

When the carriage reached her own door, and while she was in theact of giving her last kiss to her sister and nieces, Mary Bold ranout and exclaimed:

'Oh! Eleanor,--have you heard?--oh! Mrs Grantly, have you heardwhat has happened? The poor dean!'

'Good heavens,' said Mrs Grantly; 'what--what has happened?'

'This morning at nine he had a fit of apoplexy, and he has notspoken since. I very much fear that by this time he is no more.'

Mrs Grantly had been very intimate with the dean, and was thereforemuch shocked. Eleanor had not known him so well; nevertheless shewas sufficiently acquainted with his person and manners to feelstartled and grieved also at the tidings she now received. 'I willgo at once to the deanery,' said Mrs Grantly, 'the archdeacon, I amsure, will be there. If there is any news to send you I will letThomas call before he leaves town.' And so the carriage drove off,leaving Eleanor and her baby with Mary Bold.

Mrs Grantly had been quite right. The archdeacon was at thedeanery. He had come into Barchester that morning by himself, notcaring to intrude himself upon Eleanor, and he also immediately onhis arrival had heard of the dean's fit. There was, as we havebefore said, a library or reading room connecting the cathedralwith the dean's home. This was generally called the bishop'slibrary, because a certain bishop of Barchester was supposed tohave added it to the cathedral. It was built immediately over aportion of the cloisters, and a flight of stairs descended from itinto the room in which the cathedral clergymen put their surpliceson and off. As it also opened directly into the dean's house, itwas the passage through which that dignitary usually went to hispublic devotions. Who had or had not the right of entry into it,might be difficult to say; but the people of Barchester believedthat it belonged to the dean, and the clergymen of Barchesterbelieved that it belonged to the chapter.

On the morning in question most of the resident clergymen whoconstituted the chapter, and some few others, were here assembled,and among them as usual the archdeacon towered with high authority.He had heard of the dean's fit before he was over the bridge whichled into the town, and had at once come to the well known clericaltrysting place. He had been there by eleven o'clock, and hadremained ever since. From time to time the medical men who had beencalled in came through from the deanery into the library, utteredlittle bulletins, and then returned. There was it appears verylittle hope of the old man's rallying, indeed no hope of any thinglike a final recovery. The only question was whether he must die atonce speechless, unconscious, stricken to death by his first heavyfit; or whether by due aid of medical skill he might not be so farbrought back to this world as to become conscious of his state, andenabled to address one prayer to his Maker before he was called tomeet Him face to face at the judgement seat.

Sir Omicron Pie had been sent for from London. That great man hadshown himself a wonderful adept at keeping life still moving withinan old man's heart in the case of good old Bishop Grantly, and itmight be reasonably expected that he would be equally successfulwith a dean. In the mean time, Dr Fillgrave and Mr Rerechild weredoing their best; and poor Miss Trefoil sat at the head of herfather's bed, longing, as in such cases daughters do long, to beallowed to do something to show her love; if it were only to chafehis feet with her hands, or wait in menial offices on thoseautocratic doctors; anything so that now in the time of need shemight be of use.

The archdeacon alone of the attendant clergy had been admitted fora moment into the sick man's chamber. He had crept in with creakingshoes, had said with smothered voice a word of consolation to thesorrowing daughter, had looked on the distorted face of his oldfriend with solemn but yet eager scrutinising eye, as though hesaid in his heart, 'and so some day it will probably be with me;'and then, having whispered an unmeaning word or two to the doctors,had creaked his way back again into the library.

'He'll never speak again, I fear,' said the archdeacon as henoiselessly closed the door, as though the unconscious dying man,from whom all sense had fled, would have heard in his distantchamber the spring of the lock which was now so carefully handled.

'Indeed! Indeed! Is he so bad?' said the meagre little prebendary,turning over in his own mind all the probable candidates for thedeanery, and wondering whether the archdeacon would think it worthhis while to accept it. 'The fit must have been very violent.'

'When a man over seventy has a stroke of apoplexy, it seldom comesvery lightly,' said the burly chancellor.

'He was an excellent, sweet-tempered man,' said one of the vicarschoral. 'Heaven knows how we shall repair his loss.'

'He was indeed,' said a minor canon; 'and a great blessing to allthose privileged to take a share of the services of our cathedral.I suppose the government will appoint, Mr Archdeacon. I trust thatwe may have no stranger.'

'We will not talk about his successor,' said the archdeacon, 'whilethere is yet hope.'

'I know of no man,' said the meagre little prebendary, 'who hasbetter interest with the present government than Mr Slope.'

'Mr Slope!' said two or three at once almost sotto voce. 'Mr Slopedean of Barchester!'

'Pooh!' exclaimed the burly chancellor.

'The bishop would do anything for him,' said the little prebendary.

'And so would Mrs Proudie,' said the vicar choral.

'Pooh!' said the chancellor.

The archdeacon had almost turned pale at the idea. What if Mr Slopeshould become dean of Barchester? To be sure there was no adequateground, indeed no ground at all, for presuming that such adesecration could even be contemplated. But nevertheless it was onthe cards. Dr Proudie had interest with the government, and the mancarried as it were Dr Proudie in his pocket. How should they allconduct themselves if Mr Slope were to become dean of Barchester?The bare idea for a moment struck even Dr Grantly dumb.

'It would certainly not be very pleasant for us to have Mr Slope inthe deanery,' said the little prebendary, chuckling inwardly at theevident consternation which his surmise had created.

'About as pleasant and as probably as having you in the palace,'said the chancellor.

'I should think such an appointment highly improbable,' said theminor canon, 'and, moreover, extremely injudicious. Should not you,Mr Archdeacon?'

'I should presume such a thing to be quite out of the question,'said the archdeacon; 'but at the present moment I am thinkingrather of our poor friend who is lying so near us than of MrSlope.'

'Of course, of course,' said the vicar choral with a very solemnair; 'of course you are. So are we all. Poor Dr Trefoil; the bestof men but--'

'It's the most comfortable dean's residence in England,' said asecond prebendary. 'Fifteen acres in the grounds. 'It is betterthan many of the bishops' palaces.'

'And full two thousand a year,' said the meagre doctor.

'It is cut down to L 1200,' said the chancellor.

'No,' said the second prebendary. 'It is to be fifteen. A specialcase was made.'

'No such thing,' said the chancellor.

'You'll find I'm right,' said the prebendary.

'I'm sure I read it in the report,' said the minor canon.

'Nonsense,' said the chancellor. 'They couldn't do it. There wereto be no exceptions but London and Durham.'

'And Canterbury and York,' said the vicar choral, modestly.

'What say you, Grantly?' said the meagre little doctor.

'Say about what?' said the archdeacon, who had been looking asthough he were thinking about his friend the dean, but who had inreality been thinking about Mr Slope.

'What is the next dean to have, twelve or fifteen?'

'Twelve,' said the archdeacon authoritatively, thereby putting anend at once to all doubt and dispute among the subordinates as faras that subject was concerned.

'Well I certainly thought it was fifteen,' said the minor canon.

'Pooh!' said the burly chancellor. At this moment the door opened,and in came Dr Fillgrave.

'How is he?' 'Is he conscious?' 'Can he speak?' 'I hope, I trust,something better, doctor?' said half a dozen voices all at once,each in a tone of extremest anxiety. It was pleasant to see howpopular the good old dean was among his clergy.

'No change, gentlemen; not the slightest change--but a telegraphicmessage has arrived,--Sir Omicron Pie will be here by the 9.15pmtrain. If any man can do anything Sir Omicron will do it. But allthat skill can do has been done.'

'We are sure of that, Dr Fillgrave,' said the archdeacon; 'we arequite sure of that. But yet you know--'

'Oh, quite right,' said the doctor, 'quite right--I should havedone just the same--I advised it at once. I said to Rerechild atonce that with such a life and such a man, Sir Omicron should besummoned--of course I knew that the expense was nothing--sodistinguished, you know, and so popular. Nevertheless, all thathuman skill can do has been done.'

Just at this period Mrs Grantly's carriage drove into the close,and the archdeacon went down to confirm the news which she hadheard before.

By the 9.15pm train Sir Omicron Pie did arrive. And in the courseof the night a sort of consciousness returned to the poor old dean.Whether this was due to Sir Omicron Pie is a question on which itmay be well not to offer an opinion. Dr Fillgrave was very clear inhis own mind, but Sir Omicron himself is thought to have differedfrom that learned doctor.

At any rate, Sir Omicron expressed an opinion that the dean had yetsome days to live.

For the eight or ten next days, accordingly, the poor dean remainedin the same state, half conscious and half comatose, and theattendant clergy began to think that no new appointment would benecessary for some few months to come.

CHAPTER XXXII

A NEW CANDIDATE FOR ECCLESIASTICAL HONOURS

The dean's illness occasioned much mental turmoil in other placesbesides the deanery and adjoining library, and the idea whichoccurred to the meagre little prebendary about Mr Slope did notoccur to him alone.

The bishop was sitting listlessly in his study when the newsreached him of the dean's illness. It was brought to him by MrSlope, who of course was not the last person in Barchester to hearit. It was also not slow in finding its way to Mrs Proudie's ears.It may be presumed that there was not just much friendlyintercourse between these two rival claimants for his lordship'sobedience. Indeed, though living in the same house, they had notmet since the stormy interview between them in the bishop's studyon the preceding day.

On that occasion, Mrs Proudie had been defeated. That from herstandards was a subject of great sorrow to that militant lady; butthough defeated, she was not overcome. She felt that she might yetrecover her lost ground, that she might yet hurl Mr Slope down tothe dust from which she had picked him, and force her sinning lordto sue for pardon in sackcloth and ashes.

On that memorable day, memorable for his mutiny and rebellionagainst her high behests, he had carried his way with a high hand,and had really begun to think it possible that the days of hisslavery were counted. He had begun to hope that he was now about toenter into a free land, a land delicious with milk which he himselfmight quaff, and honey which would not tantalise him by being onlyhoney to the eye. When Mrs Proudie banged the door, as she left hisroom, he felt himself every inch a bishop. To be sure his spirithad been a little cowed by his chaplain's subsequent lecture; buton the whole he was highly pleased with himself, and flatteredhimself that the worst was over. 'Ce n'est que le premier pas quicoute', he reflected; and now that his first step had been somagnanimously taken, all the rest would follow easily.

He met his wife as a matter of course at dinner, where little ornothing was said that could ruffle the bishop's happiness. Hisdaughters and the servants were present and protected him.

He made one or two trifling remarks on the subject of his projectedvisit to the archbishop, in order to show to all concerned that heintended to have his own way; and the very servants perceiving thechange transferred a little of their reverence from their mistressto their master. All which the master perceived; and so also didthe mistress. But Mrs Proudie bided her time.

After dinner he returned to his study where Mr Slope soon foundhim, and there they had tea together and planned many things. Forsome few minutes the bishop was really happy; but as the clock onthe chimney piece warned him that the stilly hours of night weredrawing on, as he looked at his chamber candlestick and knew thathe must use it, his heart sank within him again. He was as a ghost,all whose power of wandering free through these upper regionsceases at cock-crow; or rather he was the opposite of the ghost,for till cock-crow he must again be a serf. And would that be all?Could he trust himself to come down to breakfast a free man in themorning?

He was nearly an hour later than usual, when he betook himself tohis rest. Rest! What rest? However, he took a couple of glasses ofsherry, and mounted the stairs. Far be it from us to follow himthither. There are some things which no novelist, no historian,should attempt; some few scenes in life's drama which even no poetshould dare to paint. Let that which passed between Dr Proudie andhis wife on this night be understood to be among them.

He came down the following morning a sad and thoughtful man. He wasattenuated in appearance; one might almost say emaciated. I doubtwhether his now grizzled looks had not palpably become more greythan on the preceding evening. At any rate he had aged materially.Years do not make a man old gradually and at an even pace. Lookthrough the world and see if this is not so always, except in thoserare cases in which the human being lives and dies without joys andwithout sorrows, like a vegetable. A man shall be possessed offlorid youthful blooming health till it matters not what age.Thirty--forty--fifty, then comes some nipping frost, some period ofagony, that robs the fibres of the body of their succulence, andthe hale and hearty man is counted among the old.

He came down and breakfasted alone; Mrs Proudie being indisposedtook her coffee in her bed-room, and her daughters waited upon herthere. He ate his breakfast alone, and then, hardly knowing what hedid, he betook himself to his usual seat in his study. He tried tosolace himself with his coming visit to the archbishop. That effortof his own free will at any rate remained to him as an enduringtriumph. But somehow, now that he had achieved it, he did not seemto care so much about it. It was his ambition that had prompted himto take his place at the arch-episcopal table, and his ambition wasnow quite dead within him.

He was thus seated when Mr Slope made his appearance withbreathless impatience.

'My lord, the dean is dead.'

'Good heavens,' exclaimed the bishop, startled out of his apathy byan announcement so sad and so sudden.

'He is either dead or now dying. He has had an apoplectic fit, andI am told that there is not the slightest hope; indeed, I do notdoubt that by this time he is no more.'

Bells were rung, and servants were immediately sent to inquire. Inthe course of the morning, the bishop, leaning on his chaplain'sarm, himself called at the deanery door. Mrs Proudie sent to MissTrefoil all manner of offers of assistance. The Miss Proudies sentalso, and there was immense sympathy between the palace and thedeanery. The answer to all inquiries was unvaried. The dean wasjust the same; and Sir Omicron Pie was expected there by the 9.15pmtrain.

And then Mr Slope began to meditate, as others also had done, as towho might possibly be the new dean; and it occurred to him, as ithad also occurred to others, that it might be possible that heshould be the new dean himself. And then the question as to thetwelve hundred, or fifteen hundred, or two thousand, ran in hismind, as it had run through those of the other clergymen in thecathedral library.

Whether it might be two thousand, of fifteen, or twelve hundred, itwould in any case undoubtedly be a great thing for him, if he couldget it. The gratification to his ambition would be greater eventhan that of his covetousness.

How glorious to out-top the archdeacon in his own cathedral city;to sit above prebendaries and canons, and have the cathedral pulpitand all the cathedral services altogether at his own disposal!

But it might be easier to wish for this than to obtain it. MrSlope, however, was not without some means of forwarding his views,and he at any rate did not let the grass grow under his feet. Inthe first place he thought--and not vainly--that he could countupon what assistance the bishop could give him. He immediatelychanged his views with regard to his patron; he made up his mindthat if he became dean, he would hand his lordship back to hiswife's vassalage; and he thought it possible that his lordshipmight not be sorry to rid himself of one of his mentors. Mr Slopehad also taken some steps towards making his name known to othermen in power. There was a certain chief-commissioner of nationalschools who at the present moment was presumed to stand especiallyhigh in the good graces of the government big wigs, and with him MrSlope had contrived to establish a sort of epistolary intimacy. Hethought that he might safely apply to Sir Nicholas Fitzhiggin; andhe felt sure that if Sir Nicholas chose to exert himself, thepromise of such a piece of preferment would be had for the askingfor.

Then he also had the press at his bidding, or flattered himselfthat he had so. The daily Jupiter had taken his part in a verythorough manner in those polemical contests of his with Mr Arabin;he had on more than one occasion absolutely had an interview with agentleman on the staff of the paper, who, if not the editor, was asgood as the editor; and had long been in the habit of writingtelling letters with his initials, and sent to his editorial friendwith private notes signed in his own name. Indeed, he and MrTowers--such was the name of the powerful gentleman of the presswith whom he was connected--were generally very amiable with eachother. Mr Slope's little productions were always printed andoccasionally commented upon; and thus, in a small sort of way, hehad become a literary celebrity. This public life had great charmsfor him, though it certainly also had its drawbacks. On oneoccasion, when speaking in the presence of reporters, he had failedto uphold and praise and swear by that special line of conductwhich had been upheld and praised and sworn by in the Jupiter, andthen he had been much surprised and at the moment not a littleirritated to find himself lacerated most unmercifully by his oldally. He was quizzed and bespattered and made a fool of, just asthough, or rather than if, he had been a constant enemy instead ofa constant friend. He had hitherto not learnt that a man whoaspires to be on the staff of the Jupiter must surrender allindividuality. But ultimately this little castigation had broken nobones between him and his friend Mr Towers. Mr Slope was one ofthose who understood the world too well to show himself angry withsuch a potentate as the Jupiter. He had kissed the rod thatscourged him, and now thought that he might fairly look for hisreward. He determined that he would at once let Mr Towers know thathe was a candidate for the place which was about to be becomevacant. More than one place of preferment had lately been givenaway much in accordance with advice tendered to the government inthe columns of the Jupiter.

But it was in incumbent on Mr Slope first to secure the bishop. Hespecially felt that it behoved him to do this before the visit tothe archbishop was made. It was really quite providential that thedean should have fallen ill just at the very nick of time. If DrProudie could be instigated to take the matter up warmly, he mightmanage a good deal while staying at the archbishop's palace.Feeling this very strongly Mr Slope determined to sound the bishopout that very afternoon. He was to start on the following morningto London, and therefore not a moment could be lost with safety.

He went into the bishop's study about five o'clock, and found himstill sitting alone. It might have been supposed that he had hardlymoved since the little excitement occasioned by the walk to thedean's door. He still wore on his face that dull dead look of halfunconscious suffering. He was doing nothing, reading nothing,thinking of nothing, but simply gazing on vacancy when Mr Slope forthe second time that day entered his room.

'Well, Slope,' said he, somewhat impatiently; for, to tell thetruth, he was not anxious just at present to have much conversationwith Mr Slope.

'Your lordship will be sorry to hear that as yet the poor dean hasshown no signs of amendment.'

'I wonder they didn't have a special. They say Dr Trefoil is veryrich.'

'Very rich, I believe,' said Mr Slope. 'But the truth is, all thedoctors in London can do no good; no other good than to show thatevery possible care has been taken. Poor Dr Trefoil is not long forthis world, my lord.'

'I suppose not--I suppose not.'

'Oh no; indeed, his best friends could not wish that he shouldoutlive such a shock, for his intellect cannot possibly surviveit.'

'Poor man, poor man!' said the bishop.

'It will naturally be a matter of much moment to your lordship whois to succeed him,' said Mr Slope. 'It would be a great thing ifyou could secure the appointment for some person of your own way ofthinking on important points. The party hostile to us are verystrong here in Barchester--much too strong.'

'Yes, yes. If poor Dr Trefoil is to go, it will be a great thing toget a good man in his place.'

'It will be everything to your lordship to get a man on whoseco-operation you can reckon. Only think what trouble we might haveif Dr Grantly, or Dr Hyandry, or any of that way of thinking, wereto get it.'

'It is not very probable that Lord--will give it to any of thatschool; why should he?'

'No. Not probable; certainly not; but it's possible. Great interestwill probably be made. If I might venture to advise your lordship,I would suggest that you should discuss the matter with his gracenext week. I have no doubt that your wishes, if made known andbacked by his grace, would be paramount with Lord--'

'Well, I don't know that; Lord - has always been very kind to me,very kind. But I am unwilling to interfere in such matters unlessasked. And indeed, if asked, I don't know whom, at this moment, Ishould recommend.'

Mr Slope, even Mr Slope, felt at present rather abashed. He hardlyknew how to frame his little request in language sufficientlymodest. He had recognised and acknowledged, to himself thenecessity of shocking the bishop in the first instance by thetemerity of his application, and his difficulty was how best toremedy that by his adroitness and eloquence. 'I doubted myself,'said he, 'whether your lordship would have any one immediately inyour eye, and it is on this account that I venture to submit to youan idea that I have been turning over in my own mind. If poor DrTrefoil must go, I really do not see why, with your lordship'sassistance, I should not hold the preferment myself.'

'You!' exclaimed the bishop, in a manner that Mr Slope could hardlyhave considered complimentary.

The ice was now broken, and Mr Slope became fluent enough. 'I havebeen thinking of looking for it. If your lordship will press thematter on the archbishop, I do not doubt but that I shall succeed.You see I shall count upon assistance from the public press; myname is known, I may say, somewhat favourably known to that portionof the press which is now most influential with the government, andI have friends also in the government. But, it is from your handsthat I would most willingly receive the benefit. And, which shouldever be the chief consideration in such matters, you must knowbetter than any other person whatsoever what qualifications Ipossess.'

The bishop sat for a while dumfounded. Mr Slope dean of Barchester!The idea of such a transformation of character would never haveoccurred to his own unaided intellect. At first he went on thinkingwhy, for what reasons, on what account, Mr Slope should be dean ofBarchester. But by degrees the direction of his thoughts changed,and he began to think why, for what reasons, on what account, MrSlope should not be dean of Barchester. As far as he himself, thebishop, was concerned, he could well spare the services of hischaplain. The little idea of using Mr Slope as a counterpoise tohis wife had well nigh evaporated. He had all but acknowledged thefutility of the scheme. If indeed he could have slept in hischaplain's bed-room instead of his wife's there might have beensomething in it. But---. And thus as Mr Slope as speaking, thebishop began to recognise the idea that that gentleman might becomedean of Barchester without impropriety; not moved, indeed, by MrSlope's eloquence, for he did not follow the tenor of his speech;but led thereto by his own cogitation.

'I need not say,' continued Mr Slope, 'that it would be my chiefdesire to act in all matters connected with cathedral as far aspossible in accordance with your views. I know your lordship sowell (and I hope you know me well enough to have the samefeelings), that I am satisfied that my being in that position wouldadd materially to your own comfort, and enable you to extend thesphere of your useful influence. As I said before, it is notdesirable that there should be but one opinion among thedignitaries in the same diocese. I doubt much whether I wouldaccept such an appointment in any diocese in which I should beconstrained to differ much from the bishop. In this case therewould be a delightful uniformity of opinion.'

Mr Slope perfectly well perceived that the bishop did not follow aword that he said, but nevertheless he went on talking. He knew itwas necessary that Dr Proudie should recover from his surprise, andhe knew also that he must give him the opportunity of appearing tohave been persuaded by argument. So he went on, and produced amultitude of fitting reasons all tending to show that no one onearth could make so good a dean of Barchester as himself, that thegovernment and the public would assuredly coincide in desiring thathe, Mr Slope, should be dean of Barchester; but that for highconsiderations of ecclesiastical polity, it would be especiallydesirable that this piece of preferment should be so bestowedthrough the instrumentality of the bishop of the diocese.

'But I really don't know what I could do in the matter,' said thebishop.

'If you would mention it to the archbishop; if you would tell hisgrace that you consider such an appointment very desirable, thatyou have it much at heart with a view of putting an end to theschism in the diocese; if you did this with your usual energy, youwould probably find no difficulty in inducing his grace to promisethat he would mention it to Lord -. Of course you would let thearchbishop know that I am not looking for the preferment solelythrough his intervention; that you do not exactly require him toask it as a favour; that you expect I shall get it through othersources, as is indeed the case; but that you are very anxious thathis grace should express his approval of such an arrangement toLord--'

It ended by the bishop promising to do as he was told. Not that heso promised without a stipulation. 'About that hospital,' he said,in the middle of the conference. 'I was never so troubled in mylife;' which was about the truth. 'You haven't spoken to Mr Hardingsince I saw you?'

Mr Slope assured his patron that he had not.

'Ah well then--I think upon the whole it will be better to let MrQuiverful have it. It has been half promised to him, and he has alarge family and is very poor. I think on the whole it will bebetter to make out the nomination for Mr Quiverful.'

'But, my lord,' said Mr Slope, still thinking that was bound tomake a fight for his own view on this matter, and remembering thatit still behoved him to maintain his lately acquired supremacy overMrs Proudie, lest he should fail in his views regarding thedeanery, 'but, my lord, I am really much afraid--'

'Remember, Mr Slope, 'I can hold out not sort of hope to you inthis matter of succeeding poor Dr Trefoil. I will certainly speakto the archbishop, as you wish it, but I cannot think--'

'Well, my lord,' said Mr Slope, fully understanding the bishop, andin his turn interrupting him, 'perhaps your lordship is right aboutMr Quiverful. I have no doubt I can easily arrange matters with MrHarding, and I will make out the nomination for your signature asyou direct.'

'Yes, Slope, I think that will be best; and you may be sure thatany little that I can do to forward your views shall be done.'

And so they parted.

Mr Slope had now much business to handle. He had to make his dailyvisit to the signora. This common prudence should have now inducedhim to omit, but he was infatuated; and could not bring himself tobe commonly prudent. He determined therefore that he would drinktea at the Stanhope's; and he determined also, or thought that hedetermined, that having done so he would go thither no more. He hadalso to arrange his matters with Mrs Bold. He was of the opinionthat Eleanor would grace the deanery as perfectly as she would thechaplain's cottage; and he thought, moreover, that Eleanor'sfortune would excellently repair and dilapidations and curtailmentsin the dean's stipend which might have been made by that ruthlessecclesiastical commission.

Touching Mrs Bold his hopes now soared high. Mr Slope was one ofthe numerous multitude of swains who think that all is fair inlove, and he had accordingly not refrained from using the servicesof Mrs Bold's own maid. From her he had learnt much of what hadtaken place at Plumstead; not exactly with truth, for the 'ownmaid' had not been able to divine the exact truth, but with somesort of similitude to it. He had been told that the archdeacon andMrs Grantly and Mr Harding and Mr Arabin had all quarrelled with'missus' for having received a letter from Mr Slope; that 'missus'had positively refused to give the letter up; that she had receivedfrom the archdeacon the option of giving up either Mr Slope and hisletter, or the society of Plumstead rectory; and that 'missus' haddeclared with much indignation, that 'she didn't care a straw forthe society of Plumstead rectory,' and that she wouldn't give up MrSlope for any of them.

Considering the source from whence this came, it was not quite sountrue as might have been expected. It showed pretty plainly whathad been the nature of the conversation in the servants' hall; andcoupled as it was with the certainty of Eleanor's sudden return, itappeared to Mr Slope to be so far worthy of credit as to justifyhim in thinking that the fair widow would in all human probabilityaccept his offer.

All this work had therefore to be done. It was desirable he thoughtthat he should make his offer before it was known that Mr Quiverfulwas finally appointed to the hospital. In his letter to Eleanor hehad plainly declared that Mr Harding was to have the appointment.It would be very difficult to explain this away; and were he towrite another letter to Eleanor, telling the truth and throwing theblame on the bishop, it would naturally injure him in herestimation. He determined therefore to let that matter discloseitself as it would, and to lose no time in throwing himself at herfeet.

Then he had to solicit the assistance of Sir Nicholas Fitzwhigginand Mr Towers, and he went directly from the bishop's presence tocompose his letters to those gentlemen. As Mr Slope was esteemed asan adept at letter writing, they shall be given in full.

'Palace, Barchester, Sept 185-, '(Private)

'My dear Sir Nicholas,--I hope that the intercourse which has beenbetween us will preclude you from regarding my present applicationas an intrusion. You cannot I imagine have yet heard that poor dearold Dr Trefoil has been seized with apoplexy. It is a subject ofprofound grief to every one in Barchester, for he has always beenan excellent man--excellent as man and as a clergyman. He is,however, full of years, and his life could not under anycircumstances have been much longer spared. You may probably haveknown him.

'There is, it appears, no probable chance of his recovery. SirOmicron Pie is, I believe, at present with him. At any rate themedical men here have declared that one or two days more must limitthe tether of his mortal coil. I sincerely trust that his soul maywing its flight to that haven where it may for ever be at rest andfor ever be happy.

'The bishop has been speaking to me about the preferment, and he isanxious that it should be conferred on me. I confess that I canhardly venture, at my age, to look for such advancement; but I amso far encouraged by his lordship, that I believe I shall beinduced to do so. His lordship goes to London tomorrow, and isintent on mentioning the subject to the archbishop.

'I know well how deservedly great is your weight with the presentgovernment. In any matter touching church preferment you would ofcourse be listened to. Now that the matter has been put into myhead, I am of course anxious to be successful. If you can assist meby your good word, you will confer on me one additional favour.

'I had better add, that Lord - cannot as yet know of this piece ofpreferment having fallen in, or rather of the certainty of falling(for poor dear Dr Trefoil is past hope). Should Lord - first hearit from you, that might probably bee thought to give you a fairclaim to express your opinion.

'Of course our grand object is, that we should all be of oneopinion in church matters. This is most desirable at Barchester; itis this that makes our good bishop so anxious about it. You mayprobably think it expedient to point this out to Lord - if it shallbe in your power to oblige me by mentioning the subject to hislordship.

His letter to Mr Towers was written in quite a different strain. MrSlope conceived that he completely understood the difference incharacter and position of the two men whom he addressed. He knewthat for such a man as Sir Nicholas Fitzwhiggin a little flummerywas necessary, and that it might be of the easy everydaydescription. Accordingly, his letter to Sir Nicholas was writtencurrente calamo, with very little trouble. But to such a man as MrTowers it was not so easy to write a letter that should beeffective and yet not offensive, that should carry its pointwithout undue interference. It was not difficult to flatter DrProudie, or Sir Nicholas Fitzwhiggin, but very difficult to flatterMr Towers without letting the flattery declare itself. This,however, had to be done. Moreover, this letter must in appearanceat least, be written without effort, and be fluent, unconstrained,and demonstrative of no doubt or fear on the part of the writer.Therefor the epistle to Mr Towers was studied, and recopied, andelaborated at the cost of so many minutes, that Mr Slope had hardlytime to dress himself and reach Dr Stanhope's that evening.

When dispatched it ran as follows:-

'Barchester, Sept 185- (He purposely omitted any allusion to the'palace', thinking that Mr Towers might not like it. A great man,he remembered, had been once much condemned for dating a letterfrom Windsor Castle.)

'(Private)

'My dear Sir,--We were all a good deal shocked here this morning byhearing that poor old Dean Trefoil had been stricken with apoplexy.The fit took him about 9am. I am writing now to save the post, andhe is still alive, but past all hope, or possibility, I believe, ofliving. Sir Omicron Pie is here, or will be very shortly; but allthat even Sir Omicron can do, is to ratify the sentence of his lessdistinguished brethren that nothing can be done. Poor Dr Trefoil'srace on this side of the grave is run. I do not know whether youknew him. He was a good, quiet, charitable man, of the old schoolof course, as any clergyman over seventy years of age mustnecessarily be.

'But I do not write merely with the object of sending you such newsas this: doubtless some one of your Mercuries will have seen andheard and reported so much; I write, as you usually do yourself,rather with a view to the future than to the past.

'Rumour is already rife her as to Dr Trefoil's successor, and amongthose named as possible future deans your humble servant is, Ibelieve, not the least frequently spoken of; in short, I am lookingfor the preferment. You may probably know that since Bishop Proudiecame to this diocese, I have exerted myself a good deal; and I maycertainly say not without some success. He and I are nearly alwaysof the same opinion on points of doctrine as well as churchdiscipline, and therefore I have had, as his confidential chaplain,very much in my own hands; but I confess to you that I have ahigher ambition than to remain the chaplain of any bishop.

'There are no positions in which more energy is now needed than inthose of our deans. The whole of our enormous cathedralestablishments have been allowed to go to sleep,--nay, they are allbut dead and ready for the sepulchre! And yet of what prodigiousmoment they might be made, if, as we intend, they were so managedas to lead the way and show an example for all our parochialclergy!

'The bishop here is most anxious for my success; indeed, he goesto-morrow to press the matter on the archbishop. I believe also Imay count on the support of at least one of the most effectivemember of the government. But I confess the support of the Jupiter,if I be thought worthy of it, would be more gratifying to me thanany other; more gratifying if by it I should be successful; andmore gratifying also, if, although, so supported, I should beunsuccessful.

'The time has, in fact, come in which no government can venture tofill up the high places of the Church in defiance of the publicpress. The age of honourable bishops and noble deans has gone by;and any clergyman however humbly born can now hope for success, ifhis industry, talent, and character, be sufficient to call forththe manifest opinion of the public in his favour.

'At the present moment we all feel that any counsel given in suchmatters by the Jupiter has the greatest weight,--is, indeed,generally followed; and we feel also--I am speaking of clergymen ofmy own age and standing--that it should be so. There can be nopatron less interested than the Jupiter, and none that morethoroughly understands the wants of the people.

'I am sure you will not suspect me of asking from you any supportwhich the paper with which you are connected cannot conscientiouslygive me. My object in writing is to let you know that I am acandidate for the appointment. It is for you to judge whether or noyou can assist my views. I should not, of course, have written toyou on such a matter had I not believed (and I have had good reasonso to believe) that the Jupiter approves of my views onecclesiastical polity.

'The bishop expresses a fear that I may be considered too young forsuch a station, my age being thirty-six. I cannot think that at thepresent day any hesitation need be felt on such a point. The publichas lost its love for antiquated servants. If a man will ever befit to do good work he will be fit at thirty-six years of age.

'Believe me very faithfully yours, OBADIAH SLOPE

'T. TOWERS, Esq., 'Middle Temple.'

Having thus exerted himself, Mr Slope posted his letters, andpassed the remainder of the evening at the feet of his mistress.

Mr Slope will be accused of deceit in his mode of canvassing. Itwill be said that he lied in the application he made to each of histhree patrons. I believe it must be owned that he did so. He couldnot hesitate on account of his youth, and yet, be quite assuredthat he was not too young. He could not count chiefly on thebishop's support, and chiefly also on that of the newspaper. He didnot think that the bishop was going to press the matter on thearchbishop. It must be owned that in his canvassing Mr Slope was asfalse as he well could be.

Let it, however, be asked of those who are conversant with suchmatters, whether he was more false than men usually are on suchoccasions. We English gentlemen hate the name of a lie; but howoften do we find public men who believe each other's words?

CHAPTER XXXIII

MRS PROUDIE VICTRIX

The next week passed over at Barchester with much apparenttranquillity. The hearts, however, of some of the inhabitants werenot so tranquil as the streets of the city. The poor old dean stillcontinued to live, just as Sir Omicron had prophesied that he woulddo, much to amazement, and some thought, disgust, of Dr Fillgrave.The bishop still remained away. He had stayed a day or two in town,and had also remained longer at the archbishop's than he hadintended. Mr Slope had as yet received no line in answer to eitherof his letters; but he had learnt the cause of this. Sir Nicholaswas stalking a deer, or attending the Queen, in the Highlands; andeven the indefatigable Mr Towers had stolen an autumn holiday, andhad made one of the yearly tribe who now ascend Mont Blanc. MrSlope learnt that he was not expected back till the last day ofSeptember.

Mrs Bold was thrown much with the Stanhopes, of whom she becamefonder and fonder. If asked, she would have said that CharlotteStanhope was her special friend, and so she would have thought.But, to tell the truth, she liked Bertie nearly as well; she had nomore idea of regarding him as a lover than she would have had oflooking at a big tame dog in such a light. Bertie had become veryintimate with her, and made little speeches to her, and said littlethings of sort very different from the speeches and sayings ofother men. But then this was almost always done before his sisters;and he, with his long silken beard, his light blue eyes and strangedress, was so unlike other men. She admitted him to a kind offamiliarity which she had never known with any one else, and ofwhich she by no means understood the danger. She blushed once atfinding that she had called him Bertie, and on the same day onlybarely remembered her position in time to check herself fromplaying upon him some personal practical joke to which she wasinstigated by Charlotte.

In all this Eleanor was perfectly innocent, and Bertie Stanhopecould hardly be called guilty. But every familiarity into whichEleanor was entrapped was deliberately planned by his sister. Sheknew well how to play her game, and played it without mercy; sheknew, none so well, what was her brother's character, and she wouldhave handed over to him the young widow, and the young widow'smoney, and the money of the widow's child, without remorse. Withher pretended friendship and warm cordiality, she strove to connectEleanor so closely with her brother as to make it impossible thatshe should go back even if she wished it. But Charlotte Stanhopeknew really nothing of Eleanor's character; did not even understandthat there were such characters. She did not comprehend that ayoung and pretty woman could be playful and familiar with a mansuch as Bertie Stanhope, and yet have no idea in her head, nofeeling in her heart that she would have been ashamed to own to allthe world. Charlotte Stanhope did not in the least conceive thather new friend was a woman whom nothing could entrap into aninconsiderate marriage, whose mind would have revolted from theslightest impropriety had she been aware that any improprietyexisted.

Miss Stanhope, however, had tact enough to make herself and herfather's house very agreeable to Mrs Bold. There was with them allan absence of stiffness and formality which was peculiarlyagreeable to Eleanor after the great dose of clerical arrogancewhich she had lately been constrained to take. She played chesswith them, walked with them, and drank tea with them; studied orpretended to study astronomy; assisted them in writing stories inrhyme, in turning prose tragedy into comic verse, or comic storiesinto would-be tragic poetry. She had no idea before that she hadany such talents. She had not conceived the possibility of herdoing such things as she now did. She found with the Stanshopes newamusements and employments, new pursuits, which in themselves couldnot be wrong, and which were exceedingly alluring.

Is it not a pity that people who are bright and clever should sooften be exceedingly improper? And that those who are neverimproper should so often be dull and heavy? Now Charlotte Stanhopewas always bright, and never heavy: but her propriety was doubtful.

But during all this time Eleanor by no means forgot Mr Arabin, nordid she forget Mr Slope. She had parted from Mr Arabin in heranger. She was still angry at what she regarded as his impertinentinterference; but nevertheless she looked forward to meeting himagain; and also looked forward to forgiving him. The words that MrArabin had uttered still sounded in her ears. She knew that if notintended for a declaration of love, they did signify that he lovedher; and she felt also that if he ever did make such a declaration,it might be that she should not receive it unkindly. She was stillangry with him, very angry with him; so angry that she would bither lip and stamp her foot as she thought of what he had said anddone. But nevertheless she yearned to let him know that he wasforgiven; all that she required was that he should own that he hadsinned.

She was to meet him at Ullathorne on the last day of the presentmonth. Miss Thorne had invited all the country round to a breakfaston the lawn. There were to be tents and archery, and dancing forthe ladies on the lawn, and for the swains and girls in thepaddock. There were to be fiddlers and fifers, races for the boys,poles to be climbed, ditches full of water to be jumped over,horse-collars to be grinned through (this latter amusement was anaddition of the stewards, and not arranged by Miss Thorne in theoriginal programme), and every game to be played which, in a longcourse of reading, Miss Thorne could ascertain to have been playedin the good days of Queen Elizabeth. Everything of more moderngrowth was to be tabooed, if possible. On one subject Miss Thornewas very unhappy. She had been turning in her mind the matter ofthe bull-ring, but could not succeed in making anything of it. Shewould not for the world have done, or allowed to be done, anythingthat was cruel; as to the promoting the torture of a bull for theamusement of her young neighbours, it need hardly be said that MissThorne would be the last to think of it. And yet, there wassomething so charming in the name. A bull-ring, however, without abull would only be a memento of the decadence of the times, and shefelt herself constrained to abandon the idea. Quintains, however,she was determined to have, and had poles and swivels and bags offlour prepared accordingly. She would no doubt have been anxiousfor something small in the way of a tournament; but, as she said toher brother, that had been tried, and the age had proved itself toodecidedly inferior to its fore-runners to admit of such a pastime.Mr Thorne did not seem to participate in her regret, feelingperhaps that a full suit of chain-armour would have added butlittle to his own personal comfort.

This party at Ullathorne had been planned in the first place as asort of welcoming to Mr Arabin on his entrance into St Ewold'sparsonage; an intended harvest-home gala for the labourers andtheir wives and children had subsequently been amalgamated with it,and thus it had grown into its present dimensions. All thePlumstead party had of course been asked, at the time of theinvitation Eleanor had intended to have gone with her sister. Nowher plans were altered, and she was going with the Stanhopes. TheProudies were also to be there; and as Mr Slope had not beenincluded in the invitation to the palace, the signora, whoseimpudence never deserted her, asked permission of Miss Thorne tobring him.

This permission Miss Thorne gave, having no other alternative; butshe did so with a trembling heart, fearing Mr Arabin would beoffended. Immediately on his return she apologised, almost withtears, so dire an enmity was presumed to rage between the twogentlemen. But Mr Arabin comforted by an assurance that he shouldmeet Mr Slope with the greatest pleasure imaginable, and made herpromise that she would introduce them to each other.

But this triumph of Mr Slope's was not so agreeable to Eleanor, whosince her return to Barchester had done her best to avoid him. Shewould not give way to the Plumstead folk when they so ungenerouslyaccused her of being in love with this odious man; but,nevertheless, knowing that she was so accused, she was fully aliveto the expediency of keeping out of his way and dropping him bydegrees. She had seen very little of him since her return. Herservants had been instructed to say to all visitors that she wasout. She could not bring herself to specify Mr Slope particularly,and in order to order to avoid him she had thus debarred herselffrom all her friends. She had excepted Charlotte Stanhope, and, bydegrees, a few others also. Once she had met him at the Stanhope's;but, as a rule, Mr Slope's visits there had been made in themorning, and hers in the evening. On that one occasion Charlottehad managed to preserve her from any annoyance. This was verygood-natured on the part of Charlotte, as Eleanor thought, and alsovery sharp-witted, as Eleanor had told her friend nothing of herreasons for wishing to avoid that gentleman. The fact, however,was, that Charlotte had learnt from her sister that Mr Slope wouldprobably put himself forward as a suitor for the widow's hand, andshe was consequently sufficiently alive to the expediency ofguarding Bertie's future wife from any danger in that quarter.

Nevertheless the Stanhopes were pledged to take Mr Slope with themto Ullathorne. An arrangement was therefore necessarily made, whichwas very disagreeable to Eleanor. Dr Stanhope, with herself,Charlotte, and Mr Slope, were to go together, and Bertie was tofollow with his sister Madeline. It was clearly visible toEleanor's face that this assortment was very disagreeable to her;and Charlotte, who was much encouraged thereby in her own littleplan, made a thousand apologies.

'I see you don't like it, dear,' said she, 'but we could not manageit otherwise. Bertie would give his eyes to go with you, butMadeline cannot possibly go without him. Nor could we possibly putMr Slope and Madeline in the same carriage without anyone else.They'd both be ruined for ever, you know, and not admitted insideUllathorne gates, I should imagine, after such an impropriety.'

'Of course that wouldn't do,' said Eleanor; 'but couldn't I go inthe carriage with the signora and your brother?'

'Impossible!' said Charlotte. 'When she is there, there is onlyroom for two.' The signora, in truth, did not care to do hertravelling in the presence of strangers.

'Well, then,' said Eleanor, 'you are all so kind, Charlotte, and sogood to me, that I am sure you won't be offended; but I think Ishall not go at all.'

'Not go at all!--what nonsense!--indeed you shall.' it had beenabsolutely determined in family council that Bertie should proposeon that very occasion.

'Or I can take a fly,' said Eleanor. 'You know that I am notembarrassed by so many difficulties as you young ladies. I can goalone.'

'Nonsense, my dear. Don't think of such a thing; after all it isonly for an hour or so, and to tell the truth, I don't know what it isyou dislike so. I thought you and Mr Slope were great friends. Whatis it you dislike?'

'Oh; nothing particular,' said Eleanor; 'only I thought it would bea family party.'

'Of course it would be much nicer, much more snug, if Bertie wouldgo with us. It is he that is badly treated. I can assure you he ismuch more afraid of Mr Slope than you are. But you see Madelinecannot go without him,--and she, poor creature, goes out so seldom!I am sure you don't begrudge her this, though her vagary does knockabout our own party a little.'

Of course Eleanor made a thousand protestations, a uttered athousand hopes that Madeline would enjoy herself. And of course shehad to give way, and undertake to go in the carriage with Mr Slope.In fact, she was driven either to so this, or to explain why shewould not do so. Now she could not bring herself to explain toCharlotte Stanhope all that had passed at Plumstead.

But it was to her a sore necessity. She thought of a thousandlittle schemes for avoiding it; she would plead illness, and not goat all; she would persuade Mary Bold to go although not asked, andthen make a necessity of having a carriage of her own to take hersister-in-law; anything, in fact, she could do rather than be seenin the same carriage with Mr Slope. However, when the momentousmorning came she had no scheme matured, and then Mr Slope handedher into Dr Stanhope's carriage, and following her steps, satopposite to her.

The bishop returned on the eve of the Ullathorne party, and wasreceived at home with radiant smiles by the partner of all hiscares. On his arrival he crept up to his dressing-room withsomewhat of a palpitating heart; he had overstayed his allottedtime by three days, and was not without fear of penalties. Nothing,however, could be more affectionately cordial than the greeting hereceived; the girls came out and kissed him in a manner that wasquite soothing to his spirit; and Mrs Proudie, arms, and almost inwords called him her dear, darling, good, pet, little bishop. Allthis was a very pleasant surprise.

Mrs Proudie had somewhat changed her tactics; not that she had seenany cause to disapprove of her former line of conduct, but she hadnow brought matters to such a point that she calculated that shemight safely do so. She had got the better of Mr Slope, and she nowthought well to show her husband that when allowed to get thebetter of everybody, when obeyed by him and permitted to rule overothers, she would take care that he should have his reward. MrSlope had not a chance against her; not only could she stun thepoor bishop by her midnight anger, but she could assuage and soothehim, if she so willed by daily indulgences. She could furnish hisroom for him, turn him out as smart a bishop as any on the bench,give him good dinners, warm fires, and an easy life; all this shewould do if he would but be quietly obedient. But if not--! Tospeak sooth, however, his sufferings on that dreadful night hadbeen as poignant, as to leave him little spirit for furtherrebellion.

As soon as he had dressed himself she returned to his room. 'I hopeyou enjoyed yourself at--' said she, seating herself on one side ofthe fire while he remained in his arm-chair on the other, strokingthe calves of his legs. It was the first time he had had a fire inhis room since the summer, and it pleased him; for the good bishoploved to be warm and cosy. Nothing could be more polite than thearchbishop; and Mrs Archbishop had been equally charming.

Mrs Proudie was delighted to hear it; nothing, she declared,pleased her so much as to think

Her bairn respectit like the lave.

She did not put it precisely in these words, but what she said cameto the same thing; and then, having petted and fondled her littleman sufficiently, she proceeded to business.

'The poor dean is still alive,' said she.

'So I hear, so I hear,' said the bishop. 'I'll go to the deanerydirectly after breakfast to-morrow.'

'We are going to this party at Ullathorne to-morrow morning, mydear; we must be there early, you know,--by twelve o'clock Isuppose.'

'Oh,--ah!' said the bishop; 'then I'll certainly call the next day.

'Was much said about it at--?' asked Mrs Proudie.

'About what?' said the bishop.

'Filling up the dean's place,' said Mrs Proudie. As she spoke aspark of the wonted fire returned to her eye, and the bishop felthimself to be a little less comfortable than before.

'Filling up the dean's place; that is, if the dean dies?--verylittle, my dear. It was mentioned, just mentioned.'

'And what did you say about it, bishop?'

'Why I said that I thought that if, that is, should--should thedean die, that is, I said I thought--' As he went on stammering andfloundering, he saw that his wife's eye was fixed sternly on him.Why should he encounter such evil for a man whom he loved soslightly as Mr Slope? Why should he give up his enjoyments and hisease, and such dignity as might be allowed to him, to fight alosing battle for a chaplain? The chaplain after all, ifsuccessful, would be as great a tyrant as his wife. Why fight atall? Why contend? Why be uneasy? From that moment he determined tofling Mr Slope to the winds, and take the goods the gods provided.

'I am told,' said Mrs Proudie, speaking very slowly, 'that Mr Slopeis looking to be the new dean.'

'Yes,--certainly, I believe he is,' said the bishop.

'And what does the archbishop say about that?' asked Mrs Proudie.

'Well, my dear, to tell the truth, I promised Mr Slope to speak tothe archbishop. Mr Slope spoke to me about it. It was very arrogantof him, I must say,--but that is nothing to me.'

'Arrogant!' said Mrs Proudie; 'it is the most impudent piece ofpretension I ever heard in my life. Mr Slope dean of Barchester,indeed! And what did you do in the matter, bishop?'

'Why, my dear, I did speak to the archbishop.'

'You don't mean to tell me,' said Mrs Proudie, 'that you are goingto make yourself ridiculous by lending your name to suchpreposterous attempts as this? Mr Slope dean of Barchester indeed!'And she tossed her head, and put her arms a-kimbo, with an air ofconfident defiance that made her husband quite sure that Mr Slopenever would be Dean of Barchester. In truth, Mrs Proudie was allbut invincible; had she married Petruchio, it may be doubtedwhether that arch wife-tamer would have been able to keep her legsout of those garments which are presumed by men to be peculiarlyunfitted for feminine use.

'It is preposterous, my dear.'

'Then why have you endeavoured to assist him?'

'Why,--my dear, I haven't assisted him--much.'

'But why have you done it at all? Why have you mixed your name upin any thing so ridiculous? What was it you did say to thearchbishop?'

'Why, I did just mention it; I just did say that--that in the eventof the poor dean's death, Mr Slope would--would--'

'Would what?'

'I forget how I put it,--would take it if he could get it;something of that sort. I didn't say much more than that.'

'You shouldn't have said anything at all. And what did thearchbishop say?'

'He didn't say anything; he just bowed and rubbed his hands.Somebody else came up at the moment, and as we were discussing thenew parochial universal school committee, the matter of the newdean dropped; after that I didn't think it was wise to renew it.'

'Renew it! I am very sorry you ever mentioned it. What will thearchbishop think of that?'

'You may be sure, my dear, that the archbishop thought very littleabout it.'

'But why did you think about it, bishop? How could you think ofmaking such a creature as that Dean of Barchester?--Dean ofBarchester! I suppose he'll be looking for bishoprics some of thesedays--a man that hardly knows who his father was; a man that Ifound without bread to his mouth, or a coat to his back. Dean ofBarchester indeed! I'll dean him.'

Mrs Proudie considered herself to be in politics a pure Whig; allher family belonged to the Whig party. Now among all ranks ofEnglishmen and Englishwomen (Mrs Proudie should, I think, be rankedamong the former, on the score of her great strength of mind), noone is so hostile to lowly born pretenders to high station as thepure Whig.

The bishop thought it necessary to exculpate himself. 'Why, mydear,' said he, 'it appeared to me that you and Mr Slope did notget on quite as well as you used to do.'

'Get on!' said Mrs Proudie, moving her foot uneasily on thehearth-rug, and compressing her lips in a manner that betokenedsuch danger to the subject of their discourse.

'I began to find that he was objectionable to you,'--Mrs Proudie'sfoot worked on the hearth-rug with great rapidity,--'and that youwould be more comfortable if he was out of the palace,' Mrs Proudiesmiled, as a hyena may probably smile before he begins hislaugh,--'and therefore I thought that if he got this place, and soceased to be my chaplain, you might be pleased at such anarrangement.'

And then the hyena laughed loud. Pleased at such an arrangement!pleased at having her enemy converted into a dean with twelvehundred a year! Medea, when she describes the customs of her nativecountry (I am quoting from Robson's edition), assures herastonished auditor that in her land captives, when taken, areeaten. 'You pardon them!' says Medea. 'We do indeed,' says the mildGrecian. 'We eat them!' says she of Colchis, with terrible energy.Mrs Proudie was the Medea of Barchester; she had no idea of noteating Mr Slope. Pardon him! merely get rid of him! make a dean ofhim! It was not so they did with their captives in her country,among people of her sort! Mr Slope had no such mercy to expect; shewould pick him to the very last bone.

'Oh, yes, my dear, of course he'll cease to be your chaplain,' saidshe. 'After what has passed, that must be a matter of course. Icouldn't for a moment think of living in the same house with such aman. Besides, he has shown himself quite unfit for such asituation; making broils and quarrels among the clergy, gettingyou, my dear, into scrapes, and taking upon himself as though hewas as good as bishop himself. Of course he'll go. But because heleaves the palace, that is no reason why he should get into thedeanery.'

'I don't want to save appearances; I want Mr Slope to appear justwhat he is--a false, designing, mean, intriguing man. I have my eyeon him; he little knows what I see. He is misconducting himself inthe most disgraceful way with that lame Italian woman. That familyis a disgrace to Barchester, and Mr Slope is a disgrace toBarchester! If he doesn't look well to it, he'll have his gownstripped off his back instead of having a dean's hat on his head.Dean, indeed! The man has gone mad with arrogance.

The bishop said nothing further to excuse either himself or hischaplain, and having shown himself passive and docile was againtaken into favour. They soon went to dinner, and he spent thepleasantest evening he had had in his own house for a long time.His daughter played and sang to him as he sipped his coffee andread his newspaper, and Mrs Proudie asked good-natured littlequestions about the archbishop; and then he went happily to bed,and slept as quietly as though Mrs Proudie had been Griseldaherself. While shaving himself in the morning and preparing for thefestivities of Ullathorne, he fully resolved to run no more tiltsagainst a warrior so fully armed at all points as was Mrs Proudie.

CHAPTER XXXIV

OXFORD--THE MASTER AND TUTOR OF LAZARUS

Mr Arabin, as we have said, had but a sad walk of it under thetrees of Plumstead churchyard. He did not appear to any of thefamily till dinner time, and then he assumed, as far as theirjudgment went, to be quite himself. He had, as was his wont, askedhimself a great many questions, and given himself a great manyanswers; and the upshot of this was that he had set himself downfor an ass. He had determined that he was much too old and much torusty to commence the manouvres of lovemaking; that he had let thetime slip through his hands which should have been used for suchpurposes; and that now he must lie on his bed as he had made it.Then he asked himself whether in truth he did love this woman; andhe answered himself, not without a long struggle, but at lasthonestly, that he certainly did love her. He then asked himselfwhether he did not also love her money; and he again answeredhimself that he did so. But here he did not answer honestly. It wasand ever had been his weakness to look for impure motives for hisown conduct. No doubt, circumstanced as he was, with a small livingand a fellowship, accustomed as he had been to collegiate luxuriesand expensive comforts, he might have hesitated to marry apenniless woman had he felt ever so strong a predilection for thewoman herself; no doubt Eleanor's fortune put all such difficultiesout of the question; but it was equally without doubt that his lovefor her had crept upon him without the slightest idea on his partthat he could ever benefit his own condition by sharing her wealth.

When he had stood on the hearth-rug, counting the pattern, andcounting also the future chances of his own life, the remembrancesof Mrs Bold's comfortable income had not certainly damped his firstassured feeling of love for her. And why should it have done so?Need it have done so with the purest of men? Be that as it may, MrArabin decided against himself; he decided that it had done so inhis case, and that he was not the purest of men.

He also decided, which was more to his purpose, that Eleanor didnot care a straw for him, and that very probably did not care astraw for his rival. Then he made up his mind not to think of herany more, and went on thinking of her till he was almost in a stateto drown himself in the little brook which was at the bottom of thearchdeacon's grounds.

And ever and again his mind would revert to the Signora Neroni, andhe would make comparisons between her and Eleanor Bold, not alwaysin favour of the latter. The signora had listened to him, andflattered him, and believed in him; at least she had told him so.Mrs Bold had also listened to him, but had never flattered him; hadnot always believed in him: and now had broken from him in violentrage. The signora, too, was the more lovely woman of the two, andhad also the additional attraction of her affliction; for to him itwas an attraction.

But he never could have loved the Signora Neroni as he felt that henow loved Eleanor! and so he flung stones into the brook, insteadof flinging in himself, and sat down on its margin as sad agentleman as you shall meet in a summer's day.

He heard the dinner-bell ring from the churchyard, and he knew thatit was time to recover his self possession. He felt that he wasdisgracing himself in his own eyes, that he had been idling histime and neglecting the high duties which he had taken upon himselfto perform. He should have spent the afternoon among the poor at StEwold's, instead of wandering about Plumstead, an ancient love-lornswain, dejected and sighing, full of imaginary sorrows andWertherian grief. He was thoroughly ashamed of himself, anddetermined to lose no time in retrieving his character, so damagedin his own eyes. Thus when he appeared at dinner he was as animatedas ever, and was the author of most of the conversation whichgraced the archdeacon's board on that evening. Mr Harding was illat ease and sick at heart, and did not care to appear morecomfortable than he really was; what little he did say was said tohis daughter. He thought the archdeacon and Mr Arabin had leaguedtogether against Eleanor's comfort; and his wish now was to breakaway from the pair, and undergo in his Barchester lodgings whateverFate had in store for him. He hated the name of the hospital; hisattempt to regain his lost inheritance there had brought upon himso much suffering. As far as he was concerned, Mr Quiverful was nowwelcome to the place.

And the archdeacon was not very lively. The poor dean's illness wasof course discussed in the first place. Dr Grantly did not mentionMr Slope's name in connexion with the expected event of DrTrefoil's death; he did not wish to say anything about Mr Slopejust at present, nor did he wish to make known his own sadsurmises; but the idea that his enemy might possibly become Dean ofBarchester made him very gloomy. Should such an even take place,such a dire catastrophe come about, there would be an end to hislife as far as his life was connected with the city of Barchester.He must give up all his old haunts, all his old habits, and livequietly as a retired rector at Plumstead. It had been a severetrial for him to have Dr Proudie in the palace; but with Mr Slopealso in the deanery, he felt that he should be unable to draw hisbreath in Barchester close.

Thus it came to pass that in spite of the sorrow at his heart, MrArabin was apparently the gayest of the party. Both Mr Harding andMrs Grantly were in a slight degree angry with him on account ofhis want of gloom. To the one it appeared as though he weretriumphing at Eleanor's banishment, and to the other that he wasnot affected as he should have been by all the sad circumstances ofthe day, Eleanor's obstinacy, Mr Slope's success, and the poordean's apoplexy. And so they were all at cross purposes.

Mr Harding left the room almost together with the ladies, and thearchdeacon opened his heart to Mr Arabin. He still harped upon thehospital. 'What did that fellow mean,' said he, 'by saying in hisletter to Mrs Bold, that if Mr Harding would call on the bishop itwould be all right? Of course I would not be guided by anything hemight say; but still it may be well that Mr Harding should see thebishop. It would be foolish to let the thing slip through ourfingers because Mrs Bold is determined to make a fool of herself.'

Mr Arabin hinted that he was not quite so sure that Mrs Bold wouldmake a fool of herself. He said that he was not convinced that shedid regard Mr Slope so warmly as she was supposed to do. Thearchdeacon questioned and cross-questioned him about this, butelicited nothing; and at least remained firm in his own convictionthat he was destined, malgre lui, to be the brother-in-law of MrSlope. Mr Arabin strongly advised that Mr Harding should take nostep regarding the hospital in connexion with, or in consequenceof, Mr Slope's letter. 'If the bishop really means to confer theappointment on Mr Harding,' argued Mr Arabin, 'he will take care tolet him have some other intimation than a message conveyed througha letter to a lady. Were Mr Harding to present himself at thepalace he might merely be playing Mr Slope's game;' and thus it wassettled that nothing should be done till the great Dr Gwynne'sarrival, or at any rate without that potentate's sanction.

It was droll how these men talked of Mr Harding as though he were apuppet, and planned their intrigues and small ecclesiasticalmanouvres without dreaming of taking him into their confidence.There was a comfortable house and income in question, and it wasvery desirable, and certainly very just, that Mr Harding shouldhave them; but that, at present, was not the main point; it wasexpedient to beat the bishop, and if possible to smash Mr Slope. MrSlope had set up, or was supposed to have set up, a rivalcandidate. Of all things the most desirable would have been to havehad Mr Quiverful's appointment published to the public, and thenannulled by the clamour of an indignant world, loud in the defenceof Mr Harding's rights. But of such an event the chance was small;a slight fraction only of the world would be indignant, and thatfraction would be one not accustomed to loud speaking. And then thepreferment had in a sort of way been offered to Mr Harding, and hadin a sort of way been refused by him.

Mr Slope's wicked, cunning hand had been peculiarly conspicuous inthe way in which this had been brought to pass, and it was thesuccess of Mr Slope's cunning which was so painfully grating thefeelings of the archdeacon. That which of all things he mostdreaded was that he should be out-generalled by Mr Slope: and justat present it appeared probable that Mr Slope would turn his flank,steal a march on him, cut off his provisions, carry his strong townby a coup de main, and at last beat him thoroughly in a regularpitched battle. The archdeacon felt that his flank had been turnedwhen desired to wait on Mr Slope instead of the bishop, that amarch had been stolen when Mr Harding was induced to refuse thebishop's offer, that his provisions would be cut off when MrQuiverful got the hospital, that Eleanor was the strong town doomedto be taken, and that Mr Slope, as Dean of Barchester, would beregarded by all the world as the conqueror in that final conflict.

Dr Gwyinne was the Deus ex machina who was to come down upon theBarchester stage, and bring about deliverance from these terribleevils. But how can melodramatic denouments be properly broughtabout, how can vice and Mr Slope be punished, and virtue and thearchdeacon be rewarded, while the avenging god is laid up with thegout? In the mean time evil may be triumphant, and poor innocence,transfixed to the earth by an arrow from Dr Proudie's quiver, maybe dead upon the ground, not to be resuscitated even by Dr Gwynne.

Two or three days after Eleanor's departure, Mr Arabin went toOxford, and soon found himself closeted with the august head of hiscollege. It was quite clear that Dr Gwynne was not very sanguine asto the effects of his journey to Barchester, and not over anxiousto interfere with the bishop. He had had the gout but was verynearly convalescent, and Mr Arabin at once saw that had the missionbeen one of which the master thoroughly approved, he would beforethis have been at Plumstead.

As it was, Dr Gwynne was resolved to visiting his friend, andwillingly promised to return to Barchester with Mr Arabin. He couldnot bring himself to believe that there was any probability that MrSlope would be made Dean of Barchester. Rumour, he said, hadreached even his ears not at all favourable to that gentleman'scharacter, and he expressed himself strongly of the opinion thatany such appointment was quite out of the question. At this stageof the proceedings, the master's right-hand man, Tom Staple, wascalled in to assist at the conference. Tom Staple was the Tutor ofLazarus, and moreover a great man at Oxford. Though universallyknown by a species of nomenclature as very undignified. Tom Staplewas one who maintained a high dignity in the University. He was, asit were, the leader of the Oxford tutors, a body of men whoconsider themselves collectively as being by very little, if atall, second in importance to the heads themselves. It is not alwaysthe case that the master, or warden, or provost, or principal canhit it off exactly with his tutor. A tutor is by no meansindisposed to have a will of his own. But at Lazarus they weregreat friends and firm allies at the time of which we are writing.

Tom Staple was a hale strong man of about forty-five; short instature, swarthy in face, with strong sturdy black hair, and crispblack beard, of which very little was allowed to show itself in theshape of whiskers. He always wore a white neckcloth, clean indeed,but not tied with that scrupulous care which now distinguishes someof our younger clergy. He was, of course, always clothed in aseemly suit of solemn black. Mr Staple was a decent cleanly liver,not over addicted to any sensuality; but nevertheless a somewhatwarmish hue was beginning to adorn his nose, the peculiar effect,as his friends averred, of a certain pipe of port introduced intothe cellars of Lazarus the very same year in which the tutorentered in as a freshman. There was also, perhaps with a littleredolence of port wine, as it were the slightest possible twang, inMr Staple's voice.

In these days Tom Staple was not a very happy man; Universityreform had long been his bugbear, and now was his bane. It was notwith him as with most others, an affair of politics, respectingwhich, when the need existed, he could, for parties' sake or onbehalf of principle, maintain a certain amount of necessary zeal;it was not with him a subject for dilettante warfare, and courteouscommon-place opposition. To him it was life and death. He wouldwillingly have been a martyr in the cause, had the cause admittedof martyrdom.

At the present day, unfortunately, public affairs will allow of nomartyrs, and therefore it is that there is such a deficiency ofzeal. Could gentlemen of L 10,000 a year have died on their owndoor-steps in defence of protection, no doubt some half-dozenglorious old baronets would have so fallen, and the school ofprotection would at this day have been crowded with scholars. Whocan fight strenuously in any combat in which there is no danger?Tom Staple would have willingly been impaled before a Committee ofthe House, could he by such self-sacrifice have infused his ownspirit into the component members of the hebdomadal board.

Tom Staple was one of those who in his heart approved of the creditsystem which had of old been in vogue between the students andtradesmen of the University. He knew and acknowledged to himselfthat it was useless in these degenerate days publicly to contendwith the Jupiter on such a subject. The Jupiter had undertaken torule the University, and Tom Staple was well aware that the Jupiterwas too powerful for him. But in secret, and among his safecompanions, he would argue that the system of credit was an ordealgood for young men to undergo.

The bad men, said he, and the weak and worthless, blunder intodanger and burn their feet; but the good men, they who have anycharacter, they who have that within them which can reflect creditin their Alma Mater, they come through scatheless. What merit willthere be to a young man to get through safely, if he guarded andprotected and restrained like a school-boy? By so doing, the periodof the ordeal is only postponed, and the manhood of the man will bedeferred from the age of twenty to that of twenty-four. If you bindhim with leading-strings at college, he will break loose whileeating for the bar in London; bind him there, and he will breakloose afterwards, when he is a married man. The wild oats must besown somewhere. 'Twas thus that Tom Staple would argue of youngmen; not, indeed, with much consistency, but still with somepractical knowledge of the subject gathered from long experience.

And now Tom Staple proffered such wisdom as he had for theassistance of Dr Gwynne and Mr Arabin.

'Quite out of the question,' said he, arguing that Mr Slope couldnot possibly be made the new Dean of Barchester.

'So I think,' said the master. 'He has no standing, and, if all Ihear be true, very little character.'

'As to character,' said Tom Staple, 'I don't think much of that.They rather like loose parsons for deans; a little fast living, ora dash of infidelity, is no bad recommendation to a cathedralclose. But they couldn't make Mr Slope; the last two deans havebeen Cambridge men; you'll not show me an instance of their makingthree men running from the same University. We don't get out share,and never shall, I suppose; but we must at least have one out ofthe three.'

'These sort of rules are all gone out by now,' said Mr Arabin.

'Everything has gone by, I believe,' said Tom Staple. 'The cigarhas been smoked out, and we are the ashes.'

'Speak for yourself, Staple,' said the master.

'I speak for all,' said the tutor stoutly. 'It is coming to that,that there will be no life left anywhere in the country. No one isany longer fit to rule himself, or those belonging to him. TheGovernment is to find us all in everything, and the press is tofind the Government. Nevertheless, Mr Slope won't be Dean ofBarchester.'

'And who will be the warden of the hospital?' said Mr Arabin.

'I hear that Mr Quiverful is already appointed,' said Tom Staple.

'I think not,' said the master. 'And I think, moreover, that DrProudie will not be so short-sighted as to run against such a rock;Mr Slope should himself have sense enough to prevent it.'

'But perhaps Mr Slope may have no objection to see his patron on arock,' said the suspicious tutor.

'What could he get by that?' asked Mr Arabin.

'It is impossible to see the doubles of such a man,' said MrStaple. 'It seems quite clear that Bishop Proudie is altogether inhis hands, and it is equally clear that he has been moving heavenand earth to get this Mr Quiverful into the hospital, although hemust know that such an appointment would be most damaging to thebishop. It is impossible to understand such a man, and dreadful tothink,' added Mr Staple, sighing deeply, 'that the welfare andfortunes of good men may depend on his intrigues.'

Dr Gwynne or Mr Staple were not in the least aware, nor even was MrArabin that this Mr Slope, of whom they were talking, had beenusing his utmost efforts to put their own candidate into thehospital; and that in lieu of being a permanent in the palace, hisown expulsion therefrom had been already decided on by the highpowers of the diocese.

'I'll tell you what,' said the tutor, 'if this Quiverful is thrustinto the hospital and Dr Trefoil must die, I should not wonder ifthe Government were to make Mr Harding Dean of Barchester. Theywould feel bound to do something for him after all that was saidwhen he resigned.'

Dr Gwynne at the moment made no reply to this suggestion; but itdid not the less impress itself on his mind. If Mr Harding couldnot be warden of the hospital, why should he not be Dean ofBarchester?

And so the conference ended without any very fixed resolution, andDr Gwynne and Mr Arabin prepared for their journey to Plumstead onthe morrow.

CHAPTER XXXV

MISS THORNE'S FETE CHAMPETRE

The day of the Ullathorne party arrived, and all the world wasthere; or at least so much of the world as had been included inMiss Thorne's invitation. As we have said, the bishop returned homeon the previous evening, and on the same evening, and by the sametrain, came Dr Gwynne and Mr Arabin from Oxford. The archdeaconwith his brougham was in waiting for the Master of Lazarus, so thatthere was a goodly show of church dignitaries on the platform ofthe railway.

The Stanhope party was finally arranged in the odious manneralready described, and Eleanor got into the doctor's waitingcarriage full of apprehension and presentiment of furthermisfortunes, whereas Mr Slope entered the vehicle elate withtriumph.

He had received that morning a civil note from Sir NicholasFitzwiggin; not promising much indeed; but then Mr Slope knew, orfancied that he knew, that it was not etiquette for governmentofficers to make promises. Though Sir Nicholas promised nothing heimplied a good deal; declared his conviction that Mr Slope wouldmake an excellent dean, and wished him every kind of success. To besure he added that, not being in the cabinet, he was neverconsulted on such matters, and that even if he spoke on the subjecthis voice would go for nothing. But all this Mr Slope took for theprudent reserve of official life. To complete his anticipatedtriumph, another letter was brought to him just as he was about tostart to Ullathorne.

Mr Slope also enjoyed the idea of handing Mrs Bold out of DrStanhope's carriage before the multitude at Ullathorne gate, asmuch as Eleanor dreaded the same ceremony. He had fully made up hismind to throw himself and his fortune at the widow's feet, and hadalmost determined to select the present propitious morning fordoing so. The signora had of late been less than civil to him. Shehad indeed admitted his visits, and listened, at any rate withoutanger, to his love; but she had tortured him, and reviled him,jeered at him and ridiculed him, while she allowed him to call herthe most beautiful of living women, to kiss her hand, and toproclaim himself with reiterated oaths her adorer, her slave, andworshipper.

Miss Thorne was in great perturbation, yet in great glory, on themorning of this day. Mr Thorne also, though the party was none ofhis giving, had much heavy work on his hands. But perhaps the mostovertasked, the most anxious and the most effective of all theUllathorne household was Mr Plomacy the steward. This lastpersonage had, in the time of Mr Thorne's father, when theDirectory held dominion in France, gone over to Paris with lettersin his boot heel for some of the royal party; and such had been hisgood luck that he had returned safe. He had then been very youngand was now very old, but the exploit gave him a character forpolitical enterprise and secret discretion which still availed himas thoroughly as it had done in its freshest gloss. Mr Plomacy hadbeen steward of Ullathorne for more than fifty years, and a veryeasy life he had had of it. Who could require much absolute workfrom a man who had carried safely at his heel that which ifdiscovered would have cost him his head? Consequently Mr Plomacyhad never worked hard, and of latter years had never worked at all.He had a taste for timber, and therefore he marked the trees thatwere to be cut down; he had a taste for gardening, and wouldtherefore allow no shrub to be planted or bed to be made withouthis express sanction.

In these matters he was sometimes driven to run counter to hismistress, but he rarely allowed his mistress to carry the pointagainst him.

But on occasions such as the present, Mr Pomney came out strong. Hehad the honour of the family at heart; he thoroughly appreciatedthe duties of hospitality; and therefore, when gala doings weregoing on, always took the management into his own hands and reignedsupreme over master and mistress.

To give Mr Pomney his due, old as he was, he thoroughly understoodsuch work as he had in hand, and did it well.

The order of the day was to be as follows. The quality, as theupper classes in rural districts are designated by the lower withso much true discrimination, were to eat a breakfast, and thenon-quality were to eat a dinner. Two marquees had been erected forthese two banquets, that for the quality on the esoteric or gardenside of a certain deep ha-ha; and that for the non-quality on theexoteric or paddock side of the same. Both were of huge dimensions;that on the outer side, one may say, on an egregious scale; but MrPomney declared that neither would be sufficient. To remedy this,an auxiliary banquet was prepared in the dining-room, and asubsidiary board was to be spread sub dio for the accommodation ofthe lower class of yokels on the Ullathorne property.

No one who has not had a hand in the preparation of such an affaircan understand the manifold difficulties which Miss Thorneencountered in her project. Had she not been made throughout of thevery finest whalebone, rivetted with the best Yorkshire steel, shemust have sunk under them. Had not Mr Pomney felt how much wasjustly expected from a man who at one time carried the destinies ofEurope in his boot, he would have given way; and his mistress, sodeserted, must have perished among her poles and canvass.

In the first place there was a dreadful line to be drawn. Who wasto dispose themselves within the ha-ha, and who without? To thisthe unthinking will give an off-hand answer, as they will to everyponderous question. Oh, the bishop and such like within the ha-ha;and Farmer Greenacre and such without. True, my unthinking friend;but who shall define these such-likes? It is in such definitionsthat the whole difficulty of society consists. To seat the bishopon an arm chair on the lawn and place Farmer Greenacre at the endof a long table in the paddock is easy enough; but where will youput Mrs Lookaloft, whose husband, though a tenant on the estate,hunts in a red coat, whose daughters go to a fashionable seminaryin Barchester, who calls her farm house Rosebank, and who has apianoforte in her drawing-room? The Misses Lookaloft, as they callthemselves, won't sit contented among the bumpkins. Mrs Lookaloftwon't squeeze her fine clothes on a bench and talk familiarly aboutcream and ducklings to good Mrs Greenacres. And yet Mrs Lookaloftis not fit companion and never has been the associate of theThornes and the Grantlys. And if Mrs Lookaloft be admitted withinthe sanctum of fashionable life, if she be allowed with her threedaughters to leap the ha-ha, why not the wives and daughters ofother families also? Mrs Greenacre is at present well contentedwith the paddock, but she might cease to be so if she saw MrsLookaloft on the lawn. And thus poor Miss Thorne had a hard time ofit.

And how was she to divide the guests between the marquee and theparlour? She had a countess coming, and Honourable John and anHonourable George, and a whole bevy of Ladies Amelia, Rosina,Margaretta &c; she had a leash of baronets with their baronesses;and, as we all know, a bishop. If she put them on the lawn, no onewould go into the parlour; if she put them into the parlour, no onewould go into the tent. She thought of keeping the old people inthe house, and leaving the lawn to the lovers. She might as wellhave seated herself at once in a hornet's nest. Mr Pomney knewbetter than this. 'Bless your soul, Ma'am,' said he, 'there won'tbe no old ladies; not one, barring yourself and old MrsChantantrum.'

Personally Miss Thorne accepted this distinction in her favour as acompliment to her good sense; but nevertheless she had no desire tobe closeted on the coming occasion with Mrs Chantantrum. She gaveup all idea of any arbitrary division of her guests, and determinedif possible to put the bishop on the lawn and the countess in thehouse, to sprinkle the baronets, and thus divide the attractions.What to do with the Lookalofts even Mr Plomacy could not decide.They must take their chance. They had been specially told in theinvitation that all the tenants had been invited; and they mightprobably have the good sense to stay away if they objected to mixwith the rest of the tenantry.

Then Mr Plomacy declared his apprehension that the Honourable Johnsand Honourable Georges would come in a sort of amphibious costume,half morning half evening, satin neckhandkerchiefs, frock coats,primrose gloves, and polished boots; and that being so dressed,they would decline riding at the quintain, or taking part in any ofthe athletic games which Miss Thorne had prepared with so muchcare. If the Lord Johns and Lord Georges didn't ride at thequintain, Miss Thorne might be sure that nobody else would.

'But,' said she in dolorous voice, all but overcome by her cares;'it was specially signified that there were to be sports.'

'And so there will be, of course,' said Mr Pomney. 'They'll all besporting with the young ladies in the laurel walks. Them's thesports they care most about now-a-days. If you gets the young menat the quintain, you'll have all the young women in the pouts.'

'Can't they look on, as their great grandmothers did before them?'said Miss Thorne.

'It seems to me that the ladies ain't contented with lookingnow-a-days. Whatever the men do they'll do. If you'll have sidesaddles on the nags, and let them go at the quintain too, it'llanswer capital, no doubt.'

Miss Thorne made no reply. She felt that she had no good ground onwhich to defend her sex of the present generation, from the sarcasmof Mr Pomney. She had once declared, in one of her warmer moments,'that now-a-days the gentlemen were all women, and the ladies allmen.' She could not alter the debased character of the age. Butsuch being the case, why should she take on herself to cater forthe amusement of people of such degraded tastes? This question sheasked herself more than once, and she could only answer herselfwith a sigh. There was her own brother Wilfred, on whose shouldersrested the all the ancient honours of Ullathorne House; it was verydoubtful whether even he would consent to 'go at the quintain', as